Sunday, January 23, 2011

I understood money as a knife, woulduse that centrifuge > London, rotatingembers of an abstract city, capitalin red & black. It was sleeping, we wereawake inside it > the opposite is also truehas blocked the anti-matter of the speaking Ihas secreted memory < confronted its beingas bourgeois love, that cannibal monstrositywherein government is at war with thought’sproductions of transparency < a pretty littleenzyme dissolved our face’s history, privatisedthe place and the formula > consciousness in exile, mass without number, insurrectionis value. Meanings excoriate the enemy language.

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It is impossible fully to grasp Rimbaud's work, and especially Une Saison en Enfer, if you have not studied through and understood the whole of Marx's Capital. Consequently, none of the poets for the past half-century has understood Rimbaud. - Lenin, Zurich, 1915

say we choked their mirror, a heatedflicker > or we know what people usedto eat in pictures < we are eating stones

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- There are sirens in this city. Their songs are grim and surgical.- There is an alarm clock ringing sixty minutes a second.- There’s a hole in the ground filled with gas and white plague.- There’s a burning cathedral. A wedding of vampires and stealth.- There’s a bully van painted red and black.- There are figures on the rooftops. Archers and cameramen.- And when you stand up and say 'enough of this', there’s always someone to shoot you in the face.